


Tricking

by minkmix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 22:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkmix/pseuds/minkmix
Summary: An abandoned house out in the middle of a swamp isn't as empty as it appears. An old woman decides Sam is a worthwhile keepsake to add to her collection...





	1. Tricking

They did their work together most of the time.

An extra set of hands and eyes, Sam's superior picking skills, Dean's nonchalance with any powers that be. As work went, they made a special army unit look like bumbling amateurs. At least Sam imagined they would considering how many times they'd slipped out from underneath anyone who had tried to keep them or pin them down. That's all team work really was wasn't it? Knowing the first thing the person behind you is going to do when things go south so fast you barely see it coming.

Two sets of eyes and hands. Used to be three sets of eyes and hands. But even then they sometimes had cause to split in three different directions, connected only by the thin tether of a cel phone and a promise to move as fast as they could. But one direction was always the softest and least dangerous. There was always a book to be found at the local library, or an old woman to reach out to confirm a dead surname. There was always one path that allowed for error without the worst of all consequences, and Sam always got it.

This morning was no different. Dean had taken one look at their leads and tore the piece of paper in half. He handed Sam the lower part that consisted of a grave etching, a library search and a stroll down a dirt road to confirm if there was indeed an old house there.

Southern towns were as rich with questions as their sweets with syrup, old, dark and potent. The kind of questions that got answered with the business end of a rifle were Dean's forte. He was professional at meddling, being in harm's way just another perk. If there was ever anything intentional about his designation to grunt work, Sam knew better than to put up much of a fight about it. He was used to the non confrontational. Uncomplicated. Milk runs.

The etching lay carefully on his motel bed. The library was long empty of everything but its shelves and some mold growing and seeping through its sealed windows.

That left only a stroll in the woods.

It was not easy to get to or so he'd been told by the few older locals who could still vaguely summon its whereabouts. No one ever really thought about it much these days, maybe torn down already by now and you didn't want to go wandering there unless you really had an urgency to.

Sam assured them that he did.

It was difficult to walk the unused road, the undergrowth came up quick and hungry around here if there wasn't a soul about to keep nature at bay. Sweat ran down his forehead and stung eyes, humidity making his head swim and his shirt stick to his skin. Sam cursed when a difficult bramble smacked him in the face as he released it, half ready to call it quits and come back tomorrow.

It was then that he paused.

It was the smell that came first. His head turned up at the scent before the house even came into view. A sweet smell, like varnish and something organic beneath. Damp carpet and decay. The place was old, abandoned left half rotting out in the sub tropics of the Louisiana forests. Moisture had warped the wood, peeling paint grayed and muted. The exterior was unremarkable. No symbols, nothing etched in the wood or mounted. No sign of anything living but the bright green moss that crept up its sides.

Sam let his fingers brush the metal hilt of the semi-automatic tucked carefully in the backseat of his jeans.

The door hung on its hinges, and unconcerned about much more than the snakes and spiders whose bite left more than blood, he entered. He did not expect the rush of cooler air that met him, the space infused with a heady, musk-like scent. It wasn’t exactly what he expected. It wasn’t gutted and devoid of furniture like the neglected local library, but it still appeared deserted, left to the elements and the creatures that dwelt in these wilds. He avoided a wide spider web with its long legged owner sitting squarely in its middle. The front room had a small narrow staircase that wound up and vanished behind the corner of the wall. An over stuffed sofa, its upholstery seemingly too rich and uncomfortable in the heat, split its moldy cotton insides from ripped rotted seams.

The smell in here was much stronger, old flowers on the verge of wilting and something else under it that he couldn’t identify. It reminded him of the dry dusty scent in a shut up mausoleum, its underlying presence strange in the humidity that hung in the air like smoke.

A voice startled him.

"Know what happens to children in stories who wander into strange houses, boy?"

The tawny wrinkled face of the old woman was suddenly and startlingly close to his when he whirled around, heart thudding in his chest. Her skin was dark, large eyes milky and pale in her frail face.

“You lookin’ for a phone? Ain't got a phone.” She dismissed him, turning around back to what looked like a small crowded kitchen. Her pale hair hung down her back in a long braid.

Sam ran his hand nervously through his hair. That hand had been hovering dangerously close to the weapon stashed in the back of his jeans. The kitchen was filled with dried flowers tied in bunches, piles of them crushed into powder on a long wooden table. Her fingers, though they had shook on her walking stick, were nimble and quick as she sorted and bunched up each stack, binding them together with twine.

"My man died years ago." She said as though speaking to no one. "Left me this place. Children wanted to move me back to the county but..." She turned and smiled with a small shrug. "....you know how old people are."

He tried to return her smile.

A wave of dizziness flowed over him. He should leave. He should leave right now.

She was standing in front of him, palm open and filled with a powder she had collected in small piles along her cluttered counters.

She softly blew it into his face.

Sam stepped backwards clumsily, coughing harshly only once. It smelled vaguely pleasant, like molasses and the crushed musk of some sweet heady flower.

"Sit." She said, invitingly.

He sat down in a chair that was directly behind him. Her pale eyes assessed him, moving in close to get a better look. Casually she pulled up a small wooden stool and sat down. To his horror, he found he could not flinch back when she touched his face with her shriveled hands. Small bony fingertips pressed gently on his lower eyelid, pulling down to carefully observe the color below. Briefly she opened his mouth and shut it again. He was aware that he was trembling and suddenly feeling very tired. He fought his drooping eyelids.

"I'm an artist, honey. A perfectionist." She explained sedately.

Her fingers traced his cheekbone, gently massaged the soft flesh beneath his jaw. His frozen eyes watched her remove a tiny brass pot from her apron pocket. He smelled something strong and pungent on her fingers when she touched his throat, finding the rapid beat of his pulse. A mark was traced over his jugular. Fighting, he swallowed, a small, futile noise escaping him.

"Shhh now. Almost done."

She lifted his heavy forearm in her hands and turned it, rolling up his sleeve to expose the inside of his elbow and wrist. His hand was bent back, the greased fingertip marking his pulse again. The spot on his throat tingled where she'd touched him, burning gently into his flesh.

The slow distracted hum from her throat was like velvet, her tone pleasant.

"You're 24 this May."

Eyes lovingly crinkled met his gaze. He could not turn his head, could not tear away from her. He could see the crochet pattern of her woolen cardigan, the two dark red earrings in her lobes like droplets of blood. He heard her draw her breath in sharply as she stared into his face, as thought she had seen something she was not meant to.

"You want peace." She whispered very quietly. "I'll give ya peace."

Sam felt his heart pound in his chest. He struggled to speak but he could manage nothing more than a rasp.

“Innocent blood is powerful medicine, has been since the dark ages. But I can't just cut a vein and take it from ya now." Yellowed teeth in her smile, soft laughter. "You're too green yet."

A flush rose to his face, throbbing with a dull heat.

"Suffering. Courage. Fear. Hope. They enhance the blood, make it weak or strong."

His was throat working, eyes moving frantically but his limbs were dead and useless as though the nerves had been severed, ligaments stiff and joints hard as stone.

"We have time. We'll wait first until you stop breathing, grow less soft. Till your bones dry up. Till there's nothing left of your eyes. Till your blood clots and thickens and we can make better use of you."

She placed a withered hand over his breastbone.

“We'll soak your heart in brine when we have need of it.”

A sudden shrill sound against his chest made him shudder involuntarily. Calmly, her hand moved into his jacket, ignoring the response of his heaving body as she searched him. She removed the ringing cell phone from his inner pocket. She held it between her fingers.

He watched as she tossed it aside.

_Dean._

Without missing a beat, she returned to her ministrations, murmuring words in a low voice, half chanting. His frantic thoughts centered on Dean, panic and fear mixing in his blood. With a surge so intense he thought he might pass out, he tore an iron arm from its paralysis on the arm of the chair, groping desperately for her. A guttural sound exploded from deep inside his chest, making her jerk back with a surprised chuckle.

"Oh my!" She covered her mouth.

Rage flooded hot through him, spilling from his staring eyes.

Like a mother correcting a fidgety baby she pushed his arm down, clucking her tongue patiently.

"Shhh. Hush now." Tenderly, she patted his dead hand, resting it once more on his lap.

Sam felt the moisture on his cheek grow cold.

"Sleep." Her voice was like the crackle of fallen leaves blown across the ground.

Sam closed his eyes.

 

 

 

It came steady as drops of water from the gutter after a rain storm.

It was distant at first, but each time it came it brought him that much closer to his own surface. It got louder the closer he came, his eyes fluttering open until it was so loud it rattled the teeth in his head. There were shadows. Indistinct. Divided and fleeting. He realized he was looking up through something slated, catching glimpses of someone moving over him through spaces in the barrier. Sam tried to reach up and touch it but his body wouldn’t respond to his commands.

The cracking sound came again, along with a small muttered curse as the person above him paused.

Sam started at the sharp end of the long stainless nail that had come down close to his face. As he stared, it was withdrawn, placed again where it would be better used. On the edge.

Of a wooden box.

_crack_

_crack_

_crack_

S-Stop. He heard himself try to whisper and suddenly the hammer ceased its pounding down around him.

He felt the gritty saw dust under his hands, the hard uneven grain of the wood under his back shudder. The sharp grating hissing sound of the box being moved startled him. His stomach lurched as the box was lifted too swiftly. The pounding started again but it was farther away this time. The box was being put away somewhere, put away and sealed up like a tomb.

With him inside of it.

Sam’s mouth opened, intent to scream, beg, anything to make them stop. All he could feel was his heart thudding wildly, the noise of it filling his ears with each steady crack of the hammer he couldn’t see. Steadily sealing him up, taking away his light, leaving him soundless, unable to move—

Somewhere he heard it.

His phone ringing again and going unanswered.

Dean.

to be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

Dean let the engine idle as he took a good long look at the narrow path that lead into the woods.

They said it was a road but whatever road that may have been there was now so overgrown with jungle that a guy would need a four wheel drive with a cow catcher on the front fender just to get through. While he had neither, he forlornly parked the car further off the main road and took an even better look. He quickly took note of a small broken branch several feet into the trail. It was just about shoulder height of his brother. He cut the engine with a small sigh.

Sam had been this way. He was sloppy about it too. Dean glanced down at his phone.

Didn't explain all the missed calls though. It was probably tough to get a signal out in there. Or maybe Sam forgot to charge the damn thing last night like Dean had reminded him to do half a dozen times. He locked the car and opened the trunk, stuck a pistol down the front of his jeans, a flashlight down the back, a crowbar down through a belt loop and loaded a sawed off shotgun before he slung it over one shoulder.

Dean sighed again when he turned back to the vine choked path. Wiping a forearm across his sweaty forehead, he rolled up his black T-shirt sleeves to relieve some of the heat.

Now if only he had some mosquito repellent.

 

 

 

He thought he lost the trail several times when everything around him shifted into full on wilderness. But then he'd travel a few more yards and the old worn tire furrows in the dirt would appear under his boots.

Dean slapped at his ear where something large and unpleasant was buzzing.

The house sat almost sunken into the ground. It was big, not like the plantation mansions that were scattered around and historically preserved, but bigger than what he expected out here in the middle of no where. Two stories, but the second looked like it was about to fold into the first floor at any moment.

The front door was closed. Dean raised his chin to what little there was of the wind and inhaled. There was some smell coming from that house. Like an old apothecary left in some dank place. But mostly just rot. And that was saying something when you were standing in the middle of a freaking swamp.

Dean slipped up close to a large tree that had grown up big, draping the house below it with Spanish moss. He slipped out his phone from his back pocket and hit redial. Even if Sammy had run into some kind of trouble he'd have left his phone on buzz so if someone called it wouldn't announce himself to God and all creation--

He heard the ring. Far off but exactly that weird ass ringtone Sam had chosen for his phone.

Dean clicked his phone closed as quickly as he was physically capable without breaking it.

"Goddamnit Sam." He hissed as he slunk down low to the base of the house and started towards the back where'd he'd heard the sound. A quick glance up into a cobwebbed window revealed an empty living room and not much else. He stopped in a crouch at the corner, hand on his pistol and took a brief look behind the house before ducking back again.

Nothing remarkable. Some kind of old clothes drying line that looked like a TV antenna, what looked like a well overgrown with vines, beyond that was the remains of an outhouse. But no Sam. He could have sworn he heard that ring coming from back here. He leaned back out to eye the back door.

Being a fan of back doors, Dean decided that was his best bet at the moment. He crept out into what could be called a back yard, avoiding the mud so he wouldn't leave much of a track. And speaking of tracks, there were none out here but the ones he was making himself through the tall grass. His gaze fell onto the antenna like clothes line.

Dean paused.

It was covered in something. No, somethings. Small things carefully tied with twine to its rusted aluminum limbs like some demented Christmas tree. As he came closer he could make out several watches. Some of their glass faces clouded up with the humidity, some looking almost brand new. There were keys, and even a chain with a locket attached. It was like a mobile of lost items, personal items, things a person wore or kept close to them everyday--

Sam's phone.

He reached up and yanked it down before he thought about the noise the clothes line would make when it creaked and whined, half turning on its post. Dean stared at it for a moment waiting for whoever dwelt inside to come bursting out through the door. But there was nothing but the creatures in the jungle croaking and screeching their songs. The sun was going down.

Dean had to move more quickly now.

 

 

 

 

The door was unlocked, and his shot gun was cocked and ready for anything that didn't look or sound like his brother.

He didn't bother with subtlety.

"Sam!" He swung a corner and took aim around an empty small kitchen. "Sam you in here!"

Getting no response he swiftly transversed the sitting room and was up the stairs. Flicking on his flashlight, he found only three rooms, the floors covered in undisturbed dust and mold growing rampant on the cracked plaster walls. The small windows were fogged with webs and moss, the last room at the end of the hallway was the darkest, with nothing but a brass bed frame in pieces on the floor.

"Sam?" Dean lowered his voice as the house's silence seemed to demand.

He put his shotgun down, leaving it leaning against the wall as he slowly entered the room. There was something different about it, the dust on the floor was disturbed, no tracks, but evidence of some kind of presence. And whatever it was, it was gone now. The beam of the flashlight ran up and down the walls and up onto the sagging ceiling. Turning, he paused when his light hit something.

Fresh plaster.

Tilting his head, Dean walked closer, his fingertips tracing the bright white line of plaster that ran down the wall and back up again in a rectangle. Almost like a doorway. Feeling suddenly cold despite the heat, Dean stepped backwards.

"Sammy?"

The crowbar slipped easily out of his jean belt loop.

 

 

 

It was hard work with the temperature seeming to rise the darker the sky outside the window became.

By the time he had worked through one solid line down the wall, he simply slid his hands in and pulled. Dean put up one booted foot against the wall for some leverage and heard himself groan with the effort. With a loud snap he ended up on the floor with a triangular piece of drywall on top of him and covered in white dust. Coughing, he sat up, pushing the piece of wall off of himself.

His breath caught in his throat. There, in the crawlspace between the walls, was an upright box. Coffin like, it was large enough to hold a person.

"S-Sam?" The lack of any response made his heart rise in his throat.

He quickly picked the crow bar back up and wedged it in the box's corner. It gave easily with the force he put behind it, and the box's cover rattled forward and fell out onto the ground. Dean got out of its way, unsure of what he would find when he lifted his flashlight.

It was a man. Or what was left of him anyway.

Dean leaned in closer to examine the corpse. It was dried. Mummified like it had been out in the desert and not sitting behind a dank wall in the middle of a Louisiana swamp. The face was warped into a silent scream, and its clothes remained more or less preserved. The eye sockets were empty and the man had a tattoo that ran along his neck and disappeared under his shirt. Dean stepped even closer to give it a better look.

There was a mark over the tattoo on his throat. Someone had put a symbol there that he didn't recognize. Tentatively, he touched it, half expecting the body to disintegrate to dust under his hand. It didn't. The man's skin felt as tough as leather and dried tight to his skeleton. The mark was almost greasy. Dean rubbed it between two fingers and then hazarded a sniff of it. It was strong. It smelled like some concentrate of what the house already smelled like. Dead flowers and death.

He sighed and wiped his fingers on the thigh of his jeans. This dead guy had been deceased for a while. After hacking at the wall and getting more than personal with it, he could guess that the plaster was at least on the outside a week old. It wasn't enough time for ... this to happen.

He swung his flashlight around in frustration.

"You gotta be kiddin' me."

Across the room there was another fresh slash of plaster.

With a sinking feeling he gripped his crowbar and wondered just how many holes in the walls he was going to have to make that night.

 

 

 

It turned out to be four.

He slumped down exhausted at the foot of some poor woman that had died just a slow horrible death as the three others he’d found. The second one had evidence of being very much alive before being entombed if bloody scratch marks were any indication. The third was missing a head until Dean looked at the bottom of the box and found where it had fallen.

And this one seemed to be the oldest of them all. Try as he might he couldn’t find even a trace on the walls upstairs or down that indicated any other bodies. Or any sign of Sam. What was he supposed to do, rip the entire house apart? He decided to check the down stairs yet again, wondering in the back of his mind just why exactly no one had appeared to ask why he was putting a crowbar through their walls. The place felt deserted and left behind.

Dean spotted a gas lantern on a table and dug in his front pocket for his Zippo. It should have lit the room in a warm gold light but the flame was almost white, sending the room in a ghastly stark array of sharp shadows. He sat down tiredly on the sofa, a little surprised when it didn’t collapse out from underneath him. Elbows on his knees, he rubbed the back of his neck and studied the worn wooden planks of the floor. They weren’t very well made. There were uneven and had wide spaces between each one. Some were missing all together.

Dean stared down at the gap in the floor boards between his boots. The way the gas light struck the ground, it shone right down into the dark below. Probably a den for opossum and snakes. Dean leaned down. But it looked like something was down there, reflecting the light and almost shiny.

It took another moment before Dean realized what he was looking at down in the dark under his feet.

Someone was looking back up at him.


	3. Chapter 3

His brother heard him.

The sudden loud sound of his own name startled him out of the light haze he drifted in and out of, bringing dreams of the box growing smaller and the lisping ragged whisper of the old lady in his ear. Again he heard his name. He tried to open his mouth and answer but all he could do was work his jaw uselessly.

The tread of boots was as familiar as the voice.

But they both faded away up the creaking stairs. Frustration burned hot at the corners of his eyes. He couldn't make a sound. His brother would never find him. He would rot here forever even after this house fell down to its foundations. He squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the stagger and start of his breathing and wondered how long he could last like this and survive.

It was much to his surprise when he opened his eyes again, through his slated coffin, and up through the floorboards were a pair of grass green eyes peering down at him.

To his shock, he was looking directly up at his brother.

 

 

 

The floorboards took a while to remove. Between Dean cursing and the crowbar working between squeaky old planks, Sam couldn't be happier with any other sounds at the moment. By the time his brother had jimmied the top off his box, he felt his lungs fill with fresh air and willed with all his power to sit up and get the hell out of there.

But he couldn't. Even when Dean licked a thumb and rubbed at the mark that still burned on his neck all he could manage was to glare.

"Look at me all you want, I'm keeping you from becoming beef jerky."

The arm Dean held twitched when he used the same method to remove the other mark. Sam wasn't quite sure how Dean knew where they had been placed. He wondered what his brother had found upstairs.

"I get that you can't talk but can you move?" Dean grabbed the belt at Sam's hips and gave a few experimental yanks. "Nothin'?"

Sam couldn't confirm it so he just waited for whatever it was that his brother would think of. Apparently his brother was thinking of the most simple and logical step.

Dean got down behind him and shoved his arms under Sam's, gathering him up into a sitting position. "Ready?" Dean asked for no reason, and then pulled with all his might.

Sam knew when the backs of his jeans caught on the edge of the box and he hadn't even cleared the floor above yet that this wasn't going to work. His dead weight would have been difficult to handle if he wasn't in a hole. But he was. Just as the thought finished in his mind Dean's strained grip slipped and Sam fell back, cracking his head on the box's corner. He heard himself groan in protest, and his brother, who had fallen backwards, reappeared at the hole's edge out of breath.

"Sorry." Dean offered.

Sam, fallen in an awkward position, silently did not accept the apology.

Dean sat back panting and half grinned down at him. "We should stop eating all that fast food huh?"

Sam blinked rapidly, the ringing pain in the back of his head fading.

"Get it? I'm weak, and yer fat?"

Sam felt himself sigh shortly.

"Let's try that again." Dean declared.

Sam thought of the hours his brother had spent finding God knows what before he found him. His forearms were almost white with plaster dust and his hands shook with muscle tremors when he touched Sam. It was from over exertion. Dean wasn't just tired, he was exhausted.

"Okay, look." His brother was back in the hole with him. "I'm goin' to bend your knees and when I pull, you try just- just try to push up with your legs okay?"

Sam felt himself try to nod but all that came was a strong exhalation of breath.

His brother nodded back as if he knew what it meant.

Dean was up behind him again, boots anchored on either side of the hole and holding onto Sam with one hand over one fist down around his stomach.

"On three...one, two, thre--OOF!"

Sam felt his tensed up legs react, pushing hard and fast against the bottom of the box. Before he knew it he was up in the sitting room again, his legs still in the hole, but he was out. He was free, he just had to move--

"Watch it you jerk, I almost bit my fuckin tongue off..." Dean moaned from somewhere underneath him.

Sam froze.

He could hear something.

Holding his breath, he listened to the footsteps on the wooden steps that lead to the front door. He tried to will himself to speak to warn his swearing brother who was struggling out from behind him. The door swung open slowly, a dark figure wavered in the doorway, and then emerged from the darkness outside as if she were made from it.

"And who are you?" She asked.

Sam gazed up at the young woman in confusion. She was barefoot in a gingham dress that barely passed her knees. Her skin was as dark and smooth as the shadows and her round brown eyes were trained on Dean. Her soft gaze flashed for an instant and Sam remembered.

...the maiden, the mother, the hag...

He couldn't warn his brother that the witch had taken up the appearance of one of her triad, one of the three stages of womanhood. Youth, Life and Death. He watched on desperately as Dean stood and finally took notice of her after she had spoken aloud. A black hearth Sam hadn't noticed flared to life beside them, the cob webs in it curling and igniting in searing strings that wafted still burning softly around the room.

Dean wasn't moving. He was just standing there staring back at her, transfixed by her unblinking eyes.

Cursing the crone for choosing the perfect form to distract his older brother with, he tried to will his body like he'd willed his legs just before. He felt a finger twitch.

She held up a small pouch as she walked towards them, her smile revealing too white and even teeth. Her lips moved on his even if Dean's embrace was unreturned, his hands and arms limp at his sides. Her arms snaked around his neck to draw him closer and Sam saw Dean's fists flex before he finally slid his hands around her body. When she stepped back and poured the content of her pouch into her palm, Sam knew what was going to happen next.

Dean sneezed and staggered backwards in a small cloud of her dust.

"Now," She said drawing her finger up under his chin and giving a nod towards Sam. "Why don't you put that back where I left it."

Sam heard her voice shift back to what the old woman had sounded like, dry and cracked, aged and brittle. Dean turned and looked down at him.

Sam barely registered the small raise of his brother's eyebrows and the small smile before it happened. Dean suddenly lunged forward grabbing the disguised crone by the arms and swinging her around. The next thing Sam knew Dean was yelling Latin and shoving her backwards, she screamed when she lost her footing over Sam's body. It was too high pitched, the windows all cracking with her anger. But Sam saw what Dean had intended.

She fell directly into the fireplace.

Her screams went up into painful octaves, her body flailing too quickly and inhumanly in the flames she had created. It forced Sam to think of a moth sputtering frantically and being slowly consumed by the tip of a candle. The smell of flowers grew hideous and sickening as her screams turned into animal growls and roars. She reared up, hair aflame, orange and red fire flowing over her body to lick the ceiling.

Dean had his shotgun aimed right her.

The explosive rounds that sent her right back into the fireplace matched the volume of her death throes. And when the screams abrubtly ceased..... suddenly Sam could move. Her bond was broken. He quickly sat up. Just in time to catch the pistol his brother tossed to him.

"Give her a couple, it's better than therapy." Dean suggested.

Sam wiped at his neck where she had left her mark.

"I'll take your word for it."

 

 

 

They left as the fire began to slowly spread, not easily in a damp place but the fire found curtains and furniture to eat. Dean made them detour towards the back to knock down what looked like a clothes line out in the dark. Sam didn't ask why.

"But I don't get it," Sam murmured breathlessly as he followed his brother down the trail he couldn't even see in the pitch black. "Why didn't that stuff affect you?"

"Easy." Dean paused and shone his flashlight under his chin.

Sam jerked back when Dean's hand came up and touched his ear. Holding the side of his head suspiciously he watched the real pouch drop by its cord from Dean's palm right before his eyes.

"Magic." Dean winked.

Sam blinked at the pouch as it swayed.

"Pocketed some pulverized plaster while I was looking for you. Put it in one of those little bags that were laying all over the place and then I knew any good charmer worth her salt would want to get as close to me as possible--"

"I get it, I get it." Sam interrupted him.

"And next time?" Dean said in an annoyed tone.

Sam tripped over an exposed tree root and swore under his breath.

"You get the top side of the to-do-list."

 

the end

**Author's Note:**

> _this was written for season 1. most holy wtf season 1. Monster of the week. Altho? i sense i have a theme, Thinking of: Thirteen  
>  Thinking of: Some People Paint  
>  **I should have the links.** There: _You. are. here.__


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